The Artifact and the Living
by PlaidButterfly
Summary: While meditating on historical events, Darth Vader receives a visit from the unbidden spirit of Revan. The Revanchist's interest in meddling in current affairs does not stop there... post-ESB
1. The Artifact and the Living

The meditation chamber was silent, oppressively so, save for the sound of his own manipulated and mechanical breathing. Perhaps, years later, he would find it an easy tempo to set the meditation to, like the ticking of a metronome. But his wounds were still relatively fresh. And more importantly, Darth Vader was still learning what it meant to be Sith.

The lesson for the day was of one of the greatest names in either history – the Revanchist. The Emperor had made some vague comment and left Vader to comb through the (now unrestricted to him) full Jedi archives. Over three thousand years of corruption, editing, and revision, it was hard work to tease the basic story out of the old files. It did not help, he supposed, that all that remained of Darth Revan was the Mandalorian mask.

Truthfully, the fact that one of the greatest Sith – or Jedi – of history had been boiled down to a flat mask made him a little sick. Even with the helmet off, in the meditation chamber, the idea that a life could be only remembered in a durasteel caricature was something that made cold rage and fear shoot through his veins. He knew it was a story meant to soothe him: Darth Revan had found the dark side for the same reason, and had ultimately succeeded in saving the Republic from the Mandalorian threat, if not far more. But the ice-hot rage curled in his throat, seething, making his fists clench, as he read Bastila Shan's fractured and piecemeal account as it survived.

Where had Obi-Wan been, he wondered, when in the same situation Shan had so easily and deftly found a solution? He was supposed to be the _Chosen One_ – surely, more important than just a miscreant war-hero. But Obi-Wan had gone to no such lengths to give him a way out. There was no forced amnesia and cover-story. There was not even the offer of a coup de grace.

So his mind was full of needling, bristling hate, rising from his gut and spreading throughout the room like choking smoke, at what he saw as Obi-Wan's laziness when such feats had been done by mere young novices like Shan.

It was so pervasive that he did not notice the figure before him until he opened his eyes, fifteen minutes later. The startled cry he gave was audible, even around the snarling, mechanical breathing. His hands gripped his chair tightly.

The Force signature alone told him that the illusion was unreal. But something about it was oddly manicured, too perfect that it became surreal. The black of the robes was _too_ black, smooth and shining as polished marble, but falling in soft folds as if some sculptor had poured it out in a column. Even the armored gloves gleamed a little too brightly. But the mask, underneath the hood, was familiar – battle-scared and worn...

Before he had a chance to speak, the figure raised a hand. The movement was almost birdlike, surreal, not seeming quite human. And then Revan spoke, even if Vader didn't think speaking was quite the right word for it.

The words seemed to hang in the air like a banner. There were voices, certainly – too many of them. He couldn't pick them all out: a middle-aged woman's, a young man's – a rough and grating elderly tone mingled with the honey-tongued clarion call of a child – multitudes upon multitudes, speaking legion. It made Vader press himself back into his seat, disgusted: is this what happened to a spirit become one with the Force, left alone for long enough to forget itself?

_I have answers for you._

The bitter rage rose in him, to the point where he could almost taste it on his lips. How dare this outdated, mess of a spirit bother him? It was almost an irrational anger, and so he tried to bite it back, but Vader's answer still came out sardonic and half-snarling. "I wasn't aware I was asking any questions."

The gloved hand jerked up, fingers playing in the air a moment as if the question Vader had asked was still hanging in the air and could be pulled out and unfurled like a magician with colorful handkerchiefs hidden up his sleeve. _You ask more than you know. I can see them._ The revulsion made Vader press back against his chair again. Is this what one of the greatest names in history was reduced to? Insane, echoing babble? _But I have answers: I have the most important answer._

"I suppose this is when you taunt me with your supposed knowledge of it," Vader said dryly, trying to remain impassive, unimpressed. But as the black robes fluttered, a knot of impressed fear wove around his throat, making him clench harder at his chair.

If anything, something behind the mask seemed amused at this.

The armored glove gleamed as Revan raised it, as if calling for the attention of a rowdy group of students. It was almost a melodramatic gesture, yet at the same time, perfectly appropriate – elegant and sweeping – as Revan reached back, into the hood. And the multitudes of voices that wove into one solid, eerie statement spoke again, bold, painted in broad brush-strokes:

_The first step is taking off the mask._

With great effort, Revan bowed, making sure that the hood of the robes obscured nearly everything. Vader could see, underneath the too-perfect inky-black robes, subtle muscles straining as the armored fingers stretched to pull something away. There was a struggle, only for a moment, before it fell away. As if it were an offering to some arcane and ancient god, Revan held the mask, cradling it, before abruptly standing tall once more and jerking away the mask's support.

The black and red Mandalorian mask fell to the floor, shattering with a crash.

There was nothing where it had been – just a void – air and silence, and the smooth concave surface of the inside of the black silk hood, shining and nascent like the inside of an egg. Even as the image floated into his dreams later, he could not find words to fully describe it. Something in it was so terrible and so profound both at once that he gave a startled cry, shying away like a scared child.

And the many multitudes that formed one voice burst into laughter – not cruel or mocking, but so horrifyingly genuine that Vader never forgot it, like so many bells ringing on so many planets to greet so many feast-days.

And then Revan was gone, and Vader was alone once more.

* * *

_Author's Notes: This was my attempt to have my cake and eat it too in terms of honoring the myriad different versions of Revan that are possible in KOTOR, as well as some interaction between the movies and the KOTOR games/mythos. I am not sure if it really works, but after some peach schnapps, I can tell you this: it seemed like a good idea at the time!_


	2. The Artifact and the Surviving

_Author's Note: I hadn't meant for this story to be anything more than a one-shot, but apparently it's gone almost fractal in my mind, so there will be more to it. Hopefully it is enjoyable. Expect more very shortly._

It was a miracle Leia had even gotten to sleep at all: she knew Luke's body was used to it, especially after the months he had spent out here in the desert constructing another lightsaber. But she was restless and fidgety, especially with Han both so near and so far away. Tomorrow she would be able to scout, to figure out the best way their plans might work. But tonight she had taken the spare cot in the tiny home cut into the Tatooine rock, and after complaining about how the mercurial planet seemed perpetually uncomfortable (now too cold instead of too hot), she had finally fallen asleep, even despite Luke's snoring.

The blue shadows slid into the room from the window, slithering and then finally pooling on the floor. That night there was something viscous about them, sticky and solid. As the moon waltzed across the sky, a figure formed, drip by drip, like a stalagmite slowly rising from a cave floor. It was late at night before, with a flourish, the blackness arranged itself into sense, and the red and black mask – though battleworn – gleamed from the hollow of the hood like a gemstone set in an elegant necklace. The long sleeves of the robe dripped down even as the figure leaned in, gauntleted hands clasping, waiting.

Fifteen minutes later, Luke finally rolled over in his cot, subconsciously trying to mediate a dispute between his shoulders (which were too cold) and his feet (too hot) and where to place his blanket. It was just close enough to consciousness that he finally gave a yawn, slowly waking up from that odd feeling of someone being very close when it was unexpected. After another solid yawn, he blinked blearily, opening his eyes -

"_AAAAAUGH!_"

His scream set off Leia, who jerked awake with a shriek, pawing for the blaster at her side and firing it half-blindly. With a smooth motion, the armored hand whipped out of the column of ink-black robes to scoop up the blaster bolt as if it were a pebble.

Blind, instinctive fear made Luke scramble back, pressing himself against the wall and flailingly kicking off the covers of the cot, even as the masked figure leaned in, pursuing him. The curse he yelped out didn't need much translating, but anything beyond that was interrupted.

The figure spoke. More accurately, thousands of voices, all of them unique and different, hit upon the same syllables like an orchestra finds the same notes to form a cohesive melody. As real and tangible as a parade banner, the words furled out with a certain amusement behind them as the mask tilted a little to curiously reflect upon Luke.

_You're not very good at this,_ Revan declared, not bothering to specify the 'this'. Gracefully, though in a way that did not entirely make good physical sense, the pillar of shadowy folds turned to face Leia. _But that was a very good shot._ The blaster bolt, impossibly condensed, hung in the palm of the armored glove, shining brightly like a piece of sun pulled and molded like taffy or cheap clay. Leia instinctively jerked away as the bright former blaster bolt was placed on the cot beside her, a gift, tamed and made safe so it didn't even smolder against the blankets.

"Who are you?" She demanded, not lowering the blaster.

The answer was casual, delivered with a tiny shrug. _The Revanchist._

Her eyes flared open and her lips pursed as she suddenly recognized who was before them. Luke seemed only to know on instinct – the way the Force swirled around the figure was surreal, so bright a focal point that it was dizzying. "That's not possible," Leia objected dizzily. "You're not real."

The mask tilted quizzically. _I knew I was a legend, but now a fairy-tale too?_ The red and black Mandalorian design tilted the other way, like a confused puppy. It was simple – Rome had been built on the shoulders of Aeneas, and England on the memory of King Arthur; so too the Republic had emerged to hold Revan in solemn reverence and awe. _I suppose I am_, the figure mused. _It does not matter. I am here now._

The declaration was as terrifying as it was thrilling. With a magician's flourish, the figure raised both hands to push the hood back just enough to hook fingers behind the mask. Leia's voice was shrill in fear, but Luke was gulping back each breath, too stunned by the way the Force was swirling in the room to say something. "What are you doing?!"

_We are so many_, the figure mused slyly. _It would not hurt to be one more. _The muscles flexed beneath the silken folds of the robes, fingers probing, pulling. _Times are dire, perhaps dire enough to need a Revanchist._ The mask gave an audible, fleshy snap, but Revan did not straighten once it was off. Instead, head bowed, Revan offered the mask out as if it were a bowl full of offerings to some arcane and wrathful god that must be placated.

_I am here to make you an offer_, the legion of voices within a voice stated. _Both of you._


	3. The Artifact and the Remaining

"I... I don't think I understand," Luke finally said. It was something of an understatement, given the way both he and Leia were staring at Revan – or the ghost of Revan, it was hard to tell.

What it did next certainly did not help matters.

The figure split, shadow cleaving, amoeba-like. Suddenly one figure became two, and then four. More startling, somehow, was that there were now faces filling out the hoods. This time, not a chorus, but each in turn.

"Time has a fractured nature," the first, a dark-skinned woman with a pleasant smile, declared. "We are each Revan."

"Simply at different times," chimed in a man with a cold, scarred face.

"Different times and places, different outcomes, different strengths," added another man, his tone much kinder than the first.

"Our power is yours for the taking." The final woman tossed her hair, even her tone high and cruel, eyes flashing.

The shadow crawled along the floor to bubble up into one final figure, one that was somehow more disturbing than all of them before: a child, a girl with wide blue eyes and curling hair, robe open to show simple padawan's robes instead of armor. She held the mask out to Luke, smiling, even as she had to speak around the wide gap between her front teeth. "Our power can be your power," she said with a childish grin before suddenly growing solemn as the figures behind her swirled once again slowly into one. "But it is power, and must be used wisely."

"Without malice," the dark-skinned woman murmured solemnly before stepping back into being part of the collective. "Unless that is what you seek."

The girl nodded, her curls bouncing, before she stepped backwards. The shadow took hold of her and the figure re-aggregated, faceless and legion once more. The mask, empty, was offered out once more to Luke, like some ritual bowl he was expected to spill his blood into.

His blue eyes wide, he took a few long breaths to answer. "No," he finally fumbled out. "No. I can't."

The empty hood nodded before turning smoothly in a way that did not quite make sense, around like something mechanical instead of something human. There was a soft glint of moonlight before it seemed to fill the silvery inside of the mask as it was offered out to Leia.

She gulped softly to try and clear some of the dryness from her throat. Her voice still was cracked when she finally found words. "No, _thank you_." Specter or not, Revan seemed to be inherently a figure that demanded politeness.

Immediately the figure drew back before looking extraordinarily pleased, if something in the lack of a face could even be pleased. Carefully, gauntleted hands reached up to put the mask back in pace; shadowed shoulders sighed in relief. _Good_, praised the chorus. _Very good. Both children are smarter than their father._ Luke held his breath a second in stunned surprise, while Leia's eyebrows knit in confusion. The figure seemed to mull over what to say next before finally declaring with almost flippant finality: _I do not need to wish you victory, it has already been written. But the Force be with you both._

And then the only shadow in the room was soft midnight mundanities cast by the furniture, and the moonlight swept everything else away as if it had never been there at all.

For a long moment they couldn't think of anything to say.

"Luke?" she whispered, like a scared child at summer camp.

"Yes, Leia?"

She paused for a few more worried breaths before finally her mind worked to rationalize things away neatly. "Let's... never eat those Corellian flatbread ready-to-eat meals before going to sleep again. This has been the kriffing strangest dream I've ever had."

"Yeah," he murmured after a moment, not bothering to argue, "...Yeah."

_(( Author's Notes – I am not quite finished with this. My AU is growing AU's – I am going to write chapters eventually where Leia accepts, and then where Luke accepts. )) _


	4. Ascent

The shadow took hold of her and the figure re-aggregated, faceless and legion once more. The mask, empty, was offered out once more to Luke, like some ritual bowl he was expected to spill his blood into.

Leia's hands trembled around the blaster pistol. "Don't," she warned, though she couldn't understand where her anxiousness was coming from.

With the Force swirling around all of them, it was downright intoxicating. Luke had to take a deep breath before his eyes focused on the mask in front of him. With serene patience, the Revanchist waited. And Luke lifted up his hands.

"Don't - _don't!_" Leia's voice went shrill in inexplicable terror. "I - I still outrank you! Don't you dare, that's an order!"

It was too late: the mask was already in his hands, and with one bold deliberate movement, he put it on. The shadows rushed to engulf him, and he staggered up, momentarily struggling before the blackness bound him tightly. He swayed to one side, then another, before finally falling back onto the ground. The shadows settled into something tangible: folds of dark cloth, arrayed in light battle armor. The mask was set in a hood where it finally seemed at home. And Leia could not see the blue of Luke's eyes.

After a long moment, the figure raised his head, squinting through the mask. The voice was Luke's, yet not Luke's at all: he spoke with a certain heavy accent, a remnant of the fact that he last spoke Basic thousands of years ago. Dizzy and confused, he murmured: "...Bastila?"

* * *

Two weeks later, Leia leaned in to catch Mon Mothma's ear.

"I know you asked me to give my opinion in all of this, but it's been..." Leia gulped solidly. "Interesting. Very interesting."

"The first question is whether Luke Skywalker is fit for duty, of course."

"Well. Yes. The problem is, I don't think he's Luke Skywalker anymore."

"I didn't think you were given to superstition," Mon Mothma said worriedly.

"Exactly," Leia said, putting a hand to her forehead. "I wouldn't even be entertaining the thought, but... well, you've spoken with him. Admiral Ackbar's been deeply impressed by his strategy and planning. He's become a rallying point for the troops, morale's never been higher - I don't know if it's even worth questioning who he is, when that's happening. But I've told you about how he went in to Jabba's palace and came out with Han - not a single shot fired, nobody even hurt. It was... amazing. And then the krayt dragon! I sent a holovid along..."

"I remember. I thought it was only mad kath hounds and Coruscantians that marched in the noon-day sun." Mon Mothma moved over to her desk before pouring out a drink for them both - cold herbal tea, kept in an elegant carafe. "Yet there he was, in black, striding across the desert. You see why I am a bit worried for his sake..."

"Please. There is no need to worry." A cheerful voice came from the doorway: Luke, or rather Revan, was there. He bowed at them both. "I merely wished to leave a token of thanks for Luke when I leave. A krayt dragon pearl is a valuable find, and will greatly improve his lightsaber." His face, behind the mask, was inscrutable as usual. But his manner was gentle and kind in a way that put them all at ease, especially when he gestured widely with his hands. "I do not intend on staying, so please, do not trouble yourselves." The odd, ancient accent made his voice have a unique lilt, oddly distinct from Luke's, yet so similar. "I will aid the Rebellion as much as I can, of course, with battle plans and resources."

A few other officials filtered into Mon Mothma's office as Revan continued speaking. "There are some things that only Skywalker can manage to do. Only he can face his father and ultimately bring redemption."

Mon Mothma's eyebrows knit in confusion. "Who would this be, exactly...?"

"Lord Vader, of course," Revan informed them cheerfully. As jaws dropped around the room, it seemed to take a moment for him to realize what was happening. "Oh... he hadn't informed you, I suppose?"

"No," Mon Mothma said, sounding quite flustered. "He hadn't."

"Oh." Revan's head dropped lightly, and he paused, looking exceptionally guilty. "Oh dear. You will have to inform him, when I'm gone, that I am terribly sorry about being such an awful houseguest..."

* * *

Vader's breathing slid in and out of him involuntarily, a steady cadence, the ticking of a metronome. Things had not gone as expected. Not at all. Vader had started dreading the name Revan out of reflex. Perhaps if he meditated, he could clear his mind of this cloudy obfuscation, and get back to the important business... the Empire, the Rebellion - and his son.

His mind had nearly drained away clean when a voice spoke, off to the side of his chair. "Vader."

The voice was familiar, and it made him jump and turn his head. A figure was there, hands clasped behind him, politely waiting for someone to take notice. The mask was eerie and familiar - of Mandalorian design - bold black and red. Revan. But the voice, save for the accent, was Luke's - it was _his son's_.

The figure held up a hand. "I am not here to settle your son's business, Lord Vader. Hold your breath and stay your hand." With patient, measured steps, Revan moved into full view, staring Vader down. "I've warned you once before, I believe. You remember my words?"

Vader's fists clenched on the armrests. "I do. Your advice is as useless now as it was before," he snarled.

"Refusing to see truth does not make it useless." Revan raised a hand again. "I have little time to argue, but there is still time for _you_. Instead of drowning in self-pity, take the help that is being offered you. Pride has held you back for far too long."

"Pride has nothing to do with it!"

"It has everything to do with it," Revan said, though his tone was mournful and understanding instead of chastising. "Your son will be meeting with you soon, Vader. All I ask is that you be ready for him."

"You have no place to demand anything of me," Vader snapped.

"And yet I do, as life does." Revan bowed at the waist, but as he straightened, the robes seemed to unravel. Cloth spun back into shadow, melting like liquid tar. The mask was the last to go, hitting the floor with a metallic clang and spinning like a penny, vertical than increasingly flat with each stroke before coming to a rest. The air aboard the Executor was normally dead still, but the Force pushed through a breeze, and the mask seemed to dissolve into grit, flying up into the air like grains of sand.

Many lightyears away, Luke Skywalker sat bolt upright, gasping. Immediately Leia greeted him with a hug: he was finally back home, as himself, and no-one else.


	5. Descent

The empty hood nodded before turning smoothly in a way that did not quite make sense, around like something mechanical instead of something human. There was a soft glint of moonlight before it seemed to fill the silvery inside of the mask as it was offered out to Leia.

A certain hunger glinted in her dark eyes. Luke immediately sucked in a startled breath through his teeth. The energy of the Force swirling around was intoxicating, enough that he was momentarily at a loss for words. It was all too heavy - too much to take in - but he was sure that she saw his begging look. _Don't... please, don't -_

But the mask was in her hands. Gently, she put it on, where it seemed so very out of place on her delicate face. The shadows lashed out, sticking to her, smothering her. Immediately Luke reached out, but the shadows were sticky like tar; they stung his fingertips and he jerked his hand back. Leia struggled for a moment before the blackness knit into some solid form - softly polished leather and dull, glinting steel paired with the sinuous curves of silk. She gasped for a few moments before her breaths became remarkably even and calm.

"Your lightsaber." Her voice was sharp and cold as she held her hand out.

"Leia...?"

Immediately, she lashed out, pushing him against the wall, her arm against his throat. He gagged, too startled to resist. "You will refer to me by _name_, boy, or not at all. Your lightsaber. I need it."

"Leia, I -" He grimaced, gagging as she pushed harder against him. This time her free hand took his lightsaber by force, snatching it from the bedside table.

"Amateurish," she said, letting the lightsaber's blade snap out. "And an awful, gaudy color. The only proper color for a lightsaber's blade is the color of what it brings - blood. Remember that, _whelp._" She let him go, and he gasped, clutching at his throat as she stretched her hand out and flexed her fingers. "Not a terrible body to receive. I'll do one favor for you. But follow me, boy, and you'll know what it is to meet a Sith."

The next morning Han was at the doorstep - still frozen in carbonite. Luke spent a solid half-hour pacing and trying to figure out how to explain to him what happened, but no words seemed adequate.

* * *

The Rebellion fractured immediately - the vast majority going with Revan. Whether it was a true transformation or a clever stunt on Leia's part, it didn't truly matter. She was still charismatic, ambitious, and she promised the progress so many of them seemed to feel was lacking. Within a month, Revan's forces had swelled impossibly. There were murmurs of witchcraft and the arcane, of some well-hidden secret that would turn the tide... of a glorious new future, powered by a miraculous Star Forge.

As she grew bolder, Luke seemed to grow quieter. Another lightsaber was constructed, in due time. Han complained bitterly to all who would hear but only let Luke and Chewie see how very hurt he was. Yet they persisted, as they always did.

It was a carefully planned ambush: with Revan's forces taking care of most of the Imperial forces, Luke was free to have the confrontation with Vader that both of them knew was inevitable. As the Empire crumbled around them, Vader's resolve was weakening. Luke's words seemed to make sense as he pleaded with his father to walk the path of redemption.

And then Revan arrived.

They had been slowly circling one another, lightsabers lit but not joined. Revan's laugh - so like Leia's, but harsher, as if all the worst of her were condensed - interrupted them as she slowly walked down the steps into the wide chamber where they fought.

"Leia?" Luke seemed startled, and immediately, he gave a gagging choke.

As Luke's legs dangled in the air, Vader charged forward. Revan didn't seem to much mind. "If you can't say my name properly, boy, you won't speak at all," she snarled. Luke gave a cry as he was flung against the wall. "As for _you_..."

Revan's lightsaber met Vader's with a shrill scream. "I've been waiting for this," Revan said smugly.

"How dare you interfere..."

"Listen to you!" She laughed, easily batting away each stroke of the blade with her own. "Puffed-up, self-righteous... A pathetic cripple!" Vader's steady breathing rung out, but as he started to speak, she cut him off once more. "And you call yourself _Sith_!" Her lightsaber strokes were coming much harder now, vicious and demanding: he could barely keep up. "What have you done to be called _Darth_? Been a terrible father? Scared a few children? Have you conquered worlds? Have you made the universe _tremble_?" Her voice rose to a feverishly high pitch. "You are nothing! _Nothing but a damn pretender!_ _I did not conquer everything so petulant__**children**__could play at being__**Sith!**_"

Their lightsabers screamed against one another, and she forced him out of a block, the stroke hard enough to make him stumble back. This time she caught him off-guard, and he cried out in pain as a glancing blow hit across his chest. Her laughter was manic and unhinged as she stalked closer to him. "It's your end, Malak. You should have known better. I always... _always... WIN!_" As she spoke she lifted him up through the force before tossing him hard against the opposite wall.

And she continued to laugh, even as she paced forward like a cat playing with a bird, swatting back and forth but unwilling to put it out of its misery. "I'm going to enjoy this. Don't think you'll die quickly, _Malak_..."

A blaster bolt rang out over her shoulder, striking the wall, and she quickly whirled. Han was there, blaster raised. But he could see just enough of Leia's eyes through the mask that his hand trembled, and he couldn't bring himself to pull the trigger again.

Instead, she laughed, tone hysterical in a way that suggested she had truly gone insane. "How nice of you to join us, Carth. Why don't you start crying," she snarled. "Poor pitiful Onasi. Betrayed by everyone. Loved by no-one. Go on, start bawling, like you always do..." But her breaths were becoming deeper, as if struggling against something.

Luke gasped, finally dragging himself up. "Leia - please -"

"_Shut up_, Mission - Jolee -" She swooned a moment, voice raising in fury. "Whoever you are!" Luke gagged before she flung him against the wall with more brutal force. The impact of his head against the plastisteel left a starburst of blood behind, with a tail dragging down to the floor.

As Luke's eyes remained open but unfocused, Vader raised his head, his wheezing having grown more desperate and sickly. "Luke?" He gasped out, tone begging in paternal worry. "Luke, please..."

She was unsteady on her feet as she staggered towards Han. Her laugh was a little weaker, now. "Go ahead, Onasi... Why don't you... why..." She panted before giving a half-scream of rage, dropping her lightsaber to clutch at her head. Fury became pain as she desperately clawed at her hood, and then finally at the mask. Fabric became sticky, tar-like, and clingy; the more she fought the more it seemed to try and smother her. The shadows stretched like taffy as she pulled at the mask. The darkness was strung along behind it, and finally, with a fleshy snap, she managed to pull it away.

And Leia gave a desperate gasp, her face again bare to the world.

She flung the mask away from her, and the blackness slithered out behind it in long tendrils before simmering around it. Each breath became deeper before Leia finally let a desperate sob spill out of her. As she clutched at her own shoulders, doubling over, Han let his blaster drop.

It was obvious, now, that Revan was dead, and fury was thoroughly replaced by anguish.


End file.
